Paint It Black
by Roux
Summary: Sands never liked being told what what to do, even as a kid.


**Paint It Black**   
By: Roux   
Rating: R  
Pairing: None, unless you count student/teacher interaction.  
Summary: Sands never liked being told what to do, even as a kid.  
Disclaimer: I only wish Sands was mine to have depravedly super kinky hot tequila/heat-induced gunsex in an empty pool -- I mean, to play around with.  
Author's Notes: Wrote the beginning of this in summer school, when I was feeling particularly angry with my algebra teacher. Hope you like. I'm still open to suggestions, cos I feel it isn't too pulled together yet, but again, read and review please.

* * *

"You do it because I _say_ you do it."   
  
"I got the right answer."   
  
"That is currently irrelevant. Do this—" brittle crackle trips through the thick dusty air "—again, I'll hand it straight back to you. No credit." No shoes, no service. No arguments.   
  
"I got the right answer." Repeated in the same bored monotone as before, ignoring the silent ultimatum while pale adolescent hands, wiry hands, pocket themselves in too-loose gray slacks. Eyes and brows stay neutral and mouth a cool line despite the momentary rattling of the thin expanse of yellow-tinted homework in his face, and then it's out of his line of vision and Jeffrey's back to studying the fake grain on the desk that's been trussed up in linoleum that doesn't even begin to resemble real wood.   
  
Teacher jowls a bit, skin flapping grossly, at a loss for what to say, and Jeff's pale, pointed face glances up to witness the ruddy visage of the adult opposite him go ruddier. Turn almost purple. Jeffrey's gaze returns to 'his' Shit Of A Desk, and the careful observer might have noticed it twitch with faint amusement as Mr. Blackwell finally decides he isn't mute.   
  
"Don't you 'but' me, young man! I—"   
  
"Didn't say but."   
  
There's a pregnant pause, during which there's some incensed sputtering that isn't worth paying any attention to. Jeffrey calmly examines his clipped nails.   
  
"Excuse me?" There's a warning in the tone, this time, which, as per usual, Jeff ignores.   
  
"You're excused," comes his drawling sigh of an answer. Jeffrey wonders if the prime specimen of Genus Fuckhead understands he's merely being tolerated. "And," he adds, picking at a callus, "as I so clearly stated before: I 'didn't say but'." Get your steam-powered hearing aid checked, old man, you fucking heard it the first goddamn time.   
  
"I am not your buddy, Mr. Sands."   
  
That's _Mister_ Mr. Sands to you, dollface, and thank Jesus on His tomato trellis. "And?" As carelessly tossed as a bagged cat into a storm drain.   
  
"I am not your buddy—"   
  
—thanks for the rehash—   
  
"—therefore you will refrain from speaking to me in that disrespectful manner. Is that clear?"   
  
"Gee, Mr. B, 'course it is! I'm _awful_ sorry, Mr. B." Thin-lipped smile, almost timid. Jaunt the eyebrows a bit. Nice joke, eh? Ha ha. He was Andy Hardy, baby! With a face like this, would I lie to you?   
  
Judging from the dubious look etched across Blackwell's chubby face, apparently so. The teacher sighs and slides Jeff's homework onto the desktop of glued-on grain, looking oh-so-weary, the poor dear. "Sheldon…"   
  
It's now that Jeffrey notices the compass that is conveniently located within grabbing range. Doesn't make a swipe for it, though; picks it up and toys with it instead as Fearless Leader scrapes on. And on.   
  
"I ask of you one thing, just one thing: — "   
  
And on…   
  
"I need to be able to see your work, Sheldon—"   
  
—how could he have forgotten that compasses were equipped with objects sharp and pointy?—   
  
"—get the wrong answer, I can see where you made a mistake. I showed you the process, you know all the steps. You have—"   
  
"Everything correct. Sir." Ooh. _Sir._ The metal in Jeff's hands reflects sunlight from outside, and he amuses himself for a second by flashing blinding white into the eyes of a two-dimensional Albert Einstein. Teacher looks as if he wants to break something, and perhaps his tone of voice implies…anger, is it?   
  
"Look, Sands, this is not a _democracy,_ it's a _dictatorship,_ and guess what? _I'm_ Mussolini!" He thumbs himself in the chest to prove his point, and rushes on, voice snappish. "_I_ tell you to do something, and _you_ do it! No questions asked! No arguments! _My_word is law. Do we understand, now, or must I explain again?"   
  
Jeffrey fakes sullenness and replies that no, he doesn't need to do that. Pointy pointy pointy…   
  
Blackwell takes a few deep breaths, to calm himself down maybe, and places his hands palm down on the desk. Jeff notices the dark hair on the backs of them, and a few liver spots that look like melted chocolate. Another sigh, and where was a pipe when you needed one, for as sure as shootin' this was going to be a Mr. Beaver Moment.   
  
"You can't keep taking shortcuts, Sheldon. Life doesn't wor—"   
  
His words whuffle into a silent shriek, and Jeff examines the man's impaled hand with interest. Pinned him to the table. Like an insect on cardboard while the dinky nub of pencil decides to look rather out of place, jutting into the empty air like that. The kid yawns and looks up into Blackwell's screaming face disinterestedly. "The fact is, Mr. B, I happen to like taking shortcuts, that way I don't have to deal with all the shit in between. Algebra, geometry, oh, math in general as I see it is much too easy; too predictable. There's always a definite answer. An objective outcome. And I do everything up here." A tap to the temple. "Not much fun, really. It's a waste of my all too precious time, and the last thing I'd want to do is be like you and teach a bunch of little dickwads like yours truly. Not that you shouldn't feel privileged.   
  
"Now me," he considers, and he gets to his feet so he can go sit behind the teacher's desk, " I'd rather everything be…subjective. Mixes it up a little bit. Makes it interesting, and pretty entertaining, too. Don't you agree?" Swivel chair. Fun.   
  
Blackwell has been attempting to wrench the metal from his hand, but it seems the mere thought of touching the compass makes him gasp, and Jeff guesses all that blood isn't helping too much, either. "You listening to me?" He takes a pen and throws it at the writhing teacher's head, which ducks unsuccessfully as the projectile hits his temple and drops to the floor with a 'tic'. "I asked you if you agreed or not?" Blackwell moans. "I'll take that as a yes.   
  
"I mean—" Jeff gets up again and takes a turn about the room, picking things up and pretending to examine them "—I can understand rules and tactics and all that crap, 'cause sometimes you need to know what the rules are to break them, right? And to make your own, because it's always better when someone's playing by rules you made up yourself." Jeffrey's voice is thoughtfully cruel now, reverting back to a sort of sadistic chumminess whenever he's trying to prove a point. "Like a chess game, you know? Yeah, they teach you the basics the first couple goddamn years, rook moves this way, bishop that way, protect the king, blah blah blah, and then you see those geniuses that make up their own geekass moves that everyone copies, and then you realize: they're all pawns, and you can make them do anything you please. Fuck rules; it's war, man. Whatever gets you from point A to point B. Gotta fake the commies out; the big man's gotta throw shapes; set the pawns up, get 'em to do whatever the fck he wants, and when he's done with 'em, when that lust is fulfilled, put those little piss-for-brains in a position where they'll get knocked off the board. Off the fucking face of the planet and into the fire. Set them up and watch them fall. Who's Mussolini now, fucker?!"   
  
Blood's puddling on the floor now. Jeff doesn't like the idea of that; he hates stains. He gets up as if nothing happened and strolls over to his ruined desk and a paling Frank Blackwell. "Sorry, went off on a bit of a tangent there, but thanks for that. Got a lot off my chest. Brain enema. Cleaning up, it's what the seventies are all about, isn't that right? Ooh." Jeffrey leans down, hands back in his pockets, and examines the damage. "Looks painful. Wonder how it happened? Holler if you need anything, big man. I'm getting the janitor." He makes for the door, but stops just as he gets there.   
  
"By the way, just for future reference: Don't call me Sheldon."


End file.
